One More Word
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: NFA Hangman prize. Tim-Tony friendship. Not slash. Oneshot.


**A/N:** Hangman prize. Tony-Tim friendship. These things happen. I have no control. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of NCIS, its characters, sets, the franchise, not even the real NCIS. More's the pity.

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**One More Word**

by Enthusiastic Fish

"One more word, Tony, and I swear I'm going to let you do all this yourself," Tim said.

"What's the matter, Probie? Can't you take a joke?" Tony asked, grinning at the fact that he'd managed to get to Tim.

"Jokes, yes. You? No," Tim muttered. He looked longingly out the door. The Metro police were still standing out there...guard duty. This was a bad neighborhood and no one knew when there'd be a resurgence in the turf war that had claimed the lives of a Marine and his family.

"Oh, come on, Probie..."

"Stop calling me that," Tim said through clenched teeth. It actually didn't bother him most of the time, but when Tony got on a roll...like now...every word out of his mouth bugged Tim.

"What should I call you instead?" Tony asked, his enjoyment patently obvious.

"You could try using my name. I know it's hard, Tony, but it's not very long," Tim retorted. He bent over a bloody footprint and snapped a picture.

"Which name would that be?"

Tim winced inwardly, knowing exactly what was coming and wishing that it wasn't.

"Probie? Elflord? McGeek? McGoo? Mc..."

Tim stood up, finally annoyed beyond measure. "That's it, Tony. I'm done. You can finish the rest of the documentation yourself." Tim whipped the camera strap off his neck, set it gently on the table beside the door and stomped out into the front yard.

Tony didn't take the hint and followed behind, still listing various and sundry nicknames. The Metro police officers didn't get involved, but Tim could see them trying (unsuccessfully) to keep the smiles off their faces. He felt his hands clenching into fists. He didn't know why it was bothering him so much more today than it usually did, but it was and he was ready to resort to violence to shut Tony up. He spun around and only vaguely paid attention to the loud booming bass coming from the car that suddenly squealed around the corner of the street and thundered toward them...

...it was over in a minute...in less than a minute. All was silence and Tim realized that he was lying on the ground underneath Tony's dead weight..._dead_... Tim opened his eyes, felt the grass tickling his face, felt the warm sticky moisture that indicated blood. He knew it wasn't his. It was Tony's. It took him a moment to realize that there were no voices...none at all. Nothing from Tony. Nothing from the other police who had been on duty. Nothing.

Finally, Tim, as gently as he could, moved Tony off of him and sat up. The neighborhood was near the infamous Sursum Corda public housing units. It was never completely quiet...except now. As if stuck in slow motion, Tim looked around the yard. He was the only one moving. The other small houses nearby seemed empty, vacant. When the bullets started to fly, everyone took shelter. Tim took a deep breath and shook himself out of his shock. He looked at Tony and began to assess his injuries, while pulling out his phone and dialing 911.

Tim felt disconnected from everything that had happened. It was a nice feeling because it allowed him to do as much as he could for Tony, trying to stop the bleeding from the two serious bullet wounds, and then check on the Metro police...and to accept the fact that all three of them were dead...without any emotion. The disconnect allowed him to return to Tony and continue to administer to his injuries without thinking about the fact that Tony might die, without remembering how near he had come to punching him in the face, without acknowledging the fact that Tony had saved Tim by pushing him down when the drive-by shooting had begun.

That same disconnect also allowed Tim to refuse the offer of the EMTs to go along with Tony to the hospital, to refuse to go to the hospital at all to be checked out. Still, his disconnect was not permanent. He could feel the part of him that was screaming its anguish and despair, but he was refusing to let it take part in anything that was going on. It would not help. It never helped. The closest he came to letting it out was when he called Gibbs.

"Boss?"

"McGee, you and Tony finished yet?"

"No, Boss."

"Why not?"

Tim looked around at the Metro police swarming over the lawn, the bloodstained grass marking the place where each of the victims had been. Victims... again, the part of him that was freaking out wanted to take over control. Again, Tim pushed it back.

He took a deep breath. "There was...a problem, Boss."

"What problem?"

"Well...uh..."

"McGee! Spit it out!"

"They came back."

"Who?"

"The gang...I guess. They came back...armed. The MPD are here. Their officers are dead. Tony's on the way to the hospital."

"_What?_"

"There was a shooting, Boss."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Tony pushed me out of the way."

"Where are you?"

"Still at the house."

"Why?"

Tim thought about it. "Why not?"

"Go to the hospital, McGee!"

"I didn't get hit, Boss." The anguish began to rap politely on the door to his current disconnected state. "Tony did. He pushed me down...he...he's the one who got shot."

"How many police are there right now?"

Tim looked around. As logical as his mind was at the moment, counting seemed to be beyond him. "Lots."

"Then, go. They don't need you there."

"They'll need me to make a statement. I'm a witness, Boss."

"Later, McGee. I'm giving you an order. Go to the hospital and wait there."

A direct order made everything easier. "Okay, Boss." Tim hung up without saying good-bye. He walked over to the detective in charge and told him that he'd been ordered to report to the hospital where Tony had been taken. The detective gave him a rather strange look, but he didn't protest.

Then, somehow, he drove to the hospital. Tim couldn't have told anyone a single moment of the drive. He didn't remember any of it. He didn't even remember getting in the car. He didn't remember getting out of the car and walking into the hospital, although he must have. What he remembered was asking for Anthony DiNozzo who had been brought in via ambulance. He actually used the word _via_. Tim realized that the anguish was trying to sneak in a window because the nurse gave him a look that could only be described as pitying. Tim shoved the emotion back out the window and locked it tightly, determined that he would only give over the control when things were okay. That was the time when he could...whatever. Not until then.

As he waited in the appropriately-named _waiting_ room, he wondered if Gibbs would go to the crime scene first, if he would try to make Ziva go to the crime scene first, or if he would come straight here. His mind, annoyingly, kept flashing back to that moment when Tony's eyes had widened and he had grabbed Tim by the collar, shoving him to the ground. Tim hadn't understood at first. He had begun to turn to see what Tony was looking at. Then, Tony had been laying on top of him.

Gibbs came to the hospital first. Ziva came to the hospital first. Then...Abby came. Tim watched her hysteria with a trace of amusement and relief. With Abby freaking out, the way she always did, it was much less likely that anyone would ask him to say anything. Anguish was waiting patiently for the moment, but speaking would make it _impatient_ for admittance.

Gibbs calmed Abby down and then sat beside Tim.

"Have you heard anything yet?"

Tim stared straight ahead, not wanting to speak. Anguish took a few steps closer to the door again. "Still in surgery. He lost a lot of blood."

"I can see that."

Tim followed Gibbs' gaze down to his jacket. It was bloody. He hadn't really noticed that before, although he probably should have. He'd never get the stains out. Anguish edged closer and tried the doorknob.

"It's been a while. They should be out again soon."

"Are you all right, McGee?"

The doorknob turned, but Tim threw the deadbolt just in time. His anguish stood on the stoop, tapping its foot.

"Yes. I'm fine. I'm just worried about Tony." He was. He was worried. Very worried. Gibbs was actually getting ready to be comforting. Tim could feel it. He stood up quickly to avoid that outlet. He wasn't ready yet. Just then, the surgeon came out and told them that Tony had survived the surgery. He was in the ICU. They hoped that he'd pull through. _They hoped..._

Tim went with everyone else and looked at Tony...lying so still on the bed, hooked to machines, having his lungs inflated by a ventilator, not cracking jokes, not being annoying. Tim couldn't believe how much he wanted Tony to start calling him McGeek again.

Then, he couldn't stay. Abby and Ziva and Gibbs stayed, but he left. He walked out of the room and although he heard them calling after him, he didn't stop. He walked...out of the ICU, out of the hospital. He walked to the car that he had driven without noticing and drove it again. He drove home. He drove to his apartment in Silver Spring and showered. He showered with his clothes on. He took off his shoes and his socks. They weren't bloody, but the rest of his clothes he left on. He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. He stood there and watched as slowly the blood leeched out of his jacket, his shirt, his pants and ran down the drain...like in _Psycho_.

Tony would be proud of him for making a movie reference.

Eventually, he saw the fallacy of trying to shower with his clothing still on his body and he took them off. He tossed the shirt, pants, and jacket into the corner of the bathtub and left them there. Then, he began to scrub at the blood that had dried on his hands and on his waist, on his legs. Tony's blood. When all the blood was gone, he saw that he didn't have a mark on him. He hadn't been injured at all. Tony had saved him. Anguish began to threaten to throw a rock through one of the windows...like Tony had during the first case he'd worked with Tim.

Tim turned off the water and got out of the bathtub.

He left the clothes inside it.

As he dressed, he remembered all the times he'd been so angry at Tony, all the times that he'd sworn (to himself) that he'd get revenge if it killed him. Somehow, it had always been _Tim_ that might die from the revenge, not _Tony_. He thought about the time that Tony had thrown crumpled pieces of paper supposedly at the garbage can near Tim's desk. Supposedly. He remembered when Kate had told him that Tony had told all the women in the office that Tim was gay. He remembered all the head slaps he'd received from Tony, the unkind barbs, the pranks, the _superglue_. He remembered...he remembered Tony coming around his desk when Erin had died. Tony coming to his apartment when he had shot Benedict. Tony being so lenient when Gibbs had nearly been killed in the explosion. Tim had never said anything about it, but he had known that Tony had taken pity on him. Tony supporting him when the crazy fan had started killing people from his book.

Suddenly, it was dark.

Tim looked out the window and knew where he needed to be. He walked out of his apartment and returned to the hospital. Visiting hours were over. Shockingly, Gibbs et al. had obeyed the rules and left. Tim didn't leave. He nodded and then walked to Tony's room anyway. He snuck past the nurse on duty and went to the chair beside Tony's bed. He sat there and looked at Tony. He looked the same as he had before. Quiet, still...almost empty. Anguish began looking for an appropriate rock.

He wondered if Kate had felt like this when Tony had the plague and she didn't. Tony wouldn't know the difference, but Tim would. Tim would know that he wasn't there, that he wasn't willing to stay after Tony had...anguish found a rock and took careful aim...after Tony had moved swiftly from teasing to saving. Tim wasn't sure whether or not he could have done that had their roles been reversed.

Tony, the man who drove him crazy nearly every second of the work day, had saved him. The rock crashed through the window and anguish poured inside. As Tim began to cry, he thought about how much Tony would make fun of him for doing this, for crying at his bedside...like in a cheap B movie. As he cried, he thought about how unfair the universe was. How was Tim supposed to be able to be angry at Tony when he had saved his life? How was it possible for Tim to hold a grudge when Tony was recovering from two bullet wounds sustained while trying to make sure that Tim was safe? There was no justice in the world. Tony would probably wake up any second now and see Tim crying and file the incident away to be drawn out later as fodder for more jokes at Tim's expense...Tim wished he would.

"You can do that, Tony," Tim said haltingly. "I'll complain, but you can do that."

Tony didn't wake up. He lay there on the bed, the ventilator clicking softly, keeping him alive. Eventually, the tears ebbed and anguish left an odd ache behind. Tim stopped crying and wiped away the tears.

"You lost your chance, Tony. I know you're always on the lookout for a chance to tease me again. No new opportunities this time." Tim sniffed loudly. Tony still didn't wake up.

Tim looked at his watch display. It was late...or rather early. It was nearly one in the morning. He wondered why he didn't leave. Tony was annoying. He was insulting. He never passed up on an opportunity to tease Tim. Why would he want to stay for someone like that?

Tim knew why.

Tony was his friend. Life had a way of throwing people together who, in normal circumstances, would never have given each other more than a second glance...unless it was one derision. Life had put Tim at Norfolk and had put Tony at NCIS. And now, they were friends.

Tim looked at Tony again. "That's what I hate about you, Tony. Why is that when you're mean to me, _I'm_ the one who ends up feeling guilty? It happens every time I'm about to get the upper hand...or else you end up being right. I don't know which is worse." Tim looked out the window at the darkness and then back at the bed. "Please, Tony...tell me which is worse."

Tony didn't wake up. Tim didn't leave.

Anguish made a few more visits during the long night...and the equally long day that followed, bringing more tears, but never so many as in that first invasion. Tim didn't sleep. He just sat and looked at Tony...or he sat and looked out the window. He refused to leave. The others came and went, but not even Gibbs suggested that Tim leave. He seemed to understand. The doctors came and went, nodding seriously, taking notes. They removed the ventilator. They came and went. Tim did not. They tried to suggest that he take a break. He didn't even bother to answer. They left him alone.

Night came again. Tony was taken from ICU and placed in a regular room. Tim went with him. He didn't say much to anyone, but he stayed. Every so often, he'd ask a stupid question, wishing that Tony would hear him and tease him again. In his head, he figured that Tony would never wake up to hear something intelligent.

It was about nine in the morning. Tim was just beginning to feel tired after two nights of no sleep. Anguish made a short visit once again, driving Tim to his feet. He stumbled around Tony's bed and walked to the window. _Maybe I should go out and find some poison ivy. Tony loves making fun of me for that._

The thought made Tim laugh.

"What's so funny, Probie?"

Tim turned around, feeling the idiotic smile stretching his lips, but not caring one whit what Tony thought about it. Tony's eyes were open. He wasn't moving much, but his eyes were open.

"Poison ivy," Tim said.

"Why is that funny?"

"I don't know. You always think it is."

Tony smiled and then grimaced, his eyes closing. Then, they opened again and he scrutinized Tim's appearance. "You look like crap, Probie."

"So do you."

"I have license. I got shot. What's _your _excuse?"

Tim wondered if he wanted to admit that he hadn't dared leave, that he had felt terrible, that he'd spent half his time lecturing Tony for being such a bad friend, that he had defied everyone and stayed. There didn't seem to be words for that.

"You got shot," Tim said, simply.

Tony didn't make a witty retort. He looked at Tim more closely, taking in the rumpled clothes, the dark circles under his eyes...and he understood.

"What about the other guys?"

"Dead."

"You?"

"Not a scratch...well, maybe a bit of a scratch...and my pants are all grass-stained, but..." Tim trailed off as anguish made one more bid.

"How long?"

"Two nights."

Tony closed his eyes again for a few seconds. He opened them again. Tim hadn't moved. "You been here the whole time?"

"Not the whole time. I changed my clothes. You bled on them."

"Since then?"

Tim shrugged.

Tony stared for a long time. Then, he said, "Thanks, McGee."

Tim met his gaze. "You're welcome."

Friends.

FINIS!


End file.
